I stared at the flames for a minute. It did not help. “That is difficult to answer. I have not thought about it in so long, that it doesn’t even feel like the right question anymore.”
“What is the right question?”
I remembered what Mircea had asked, all those years ago, what I had once wondered and what Nimue had demanded tonight. Perhaps that was the question I should have been asking all along. Only I didn’t know the answer to that one, either.
“What am I?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dory, Cairo
We withdrew to Hassani’s personal chambers, to speak in private. And, despite his reputation, they were definitely the rooms of a scholar more than a warrior. The outer section was clearly an office, with a simple wooden desk at the far end and several chairs. But it was large enough and stuffed with enough antiquities to qualify as a small museum.
There were two large glass display cases with numerous shelves in the middle of the space, which acted as a sort of room divider. Hassani picked up a blue faience item from one of them and handed it to me. It was a shawabti, one of the thousands of small, human-shaped figurines that used to be buried with the pharaohs to serve as servants in the afterlife. I’d seen plenty of them in the Cairo Museum when we’d visited the day after our arrival.
But none so fine as these.
I found them fascinating, or I would have, if I hadn’t been so anxious to hear what the consul had to say about Dorina. But I knew old vamps, and pushing them rarely resulted in anything good. I had about a thousand questions for Hassani, but ironically, the fastest way to get them answered was to bite my tongue and smile.
It wasn’t as hard as it might have been, because the figurines really were interesting, and not only for the artistry that went into them. But because they reminded me of some modern-day versions I’d seen at Aswan. The market there had had tiny clay statues of vegetable sellers, basket weavers, potters, spice vendors and fishermen, with some clearly modelled on local residents. One little guy had even had one of the famous crocodiles draped over his shoulders, the beast gazing smugly at potential buyers as if to say, “Why yes, this is my due.”
That one had been my favorite, but they were all exquisitely detailed, and painted in bright, happy colors. The tomatoes in front of one vendor were a cheerful red, the leaves in another’s basket were a brilliant green, and the spices another was hawking were a delicious-looking saffron yellow. But other than for the vivid hues and modern clothes of the Aswan figures, the two groups might have been made by the same craftsman.
Different artists, thousands of years apart, but they’d both captured perfectly a slice of Egyptian life. The ancient version had tiny bakers rolling out dough; tiny cow herders leading their spotted charges; and tiny beer brewers leaning over pots half as big as they were, checking on the quality of the item that was so vital to the Egyptian diet that it was often used in place of currency. There were a surprising number of women depicted, too, with one playing a lute that didn’t look so different from the oud player upstairs, and another with a harp. There was even a female artisan painting a figurine of a goddess.
“Women played an important part in ancient Egyptian life,” Hassani informed me, seeing the direction of my gaze. He indicated the figurine he’d just given me. It was of a weaver at her loom, with a smaller figure, perhaps her daughter, kneeling beside her, as if helping or learning.
“Yeah, doing the hard work,” I pointed out cynically.
He smiled. “Yes, but most work was hard then, and they were well compensated. They wove the linen, you see.” He took me over to a wall, where a piece of ancient fabric resided under a slab of glass.
It had yellowed slightly over the years and, by modern standards, was a little clunky, with some of the strands slightly wider than the others. But it was also very sheer, surprisingly so. I’d have easily been able to see my hand through it had I been able to touch it. As it was, I could see the pattern of the wood on the shelf below.
“The ancients described this type of fabric as royal linen,” Hassani informed me. “The very finest kind. Well, other than that made for the pharaoh himself, which would have had gold threads woven through it.”
“It’s. . . very nice,” I said, trying to think of something to say about a piece of old fabric.
But, of course, that only encouraged him.
“Fine linen was a luxury item that brought huge prices, both inside and outside of Egypt,” he continued. “In fact, it sold for so much, that the women weavers sometimes out earned their husbands.”
“That must have been awkward.”
“Not at all. Their earning potential was valued, and made Egyptian women powerful. Alone among the ancient civilizations, women in Egypt were considered equal to men under the law. They owned their own property, could conduct business the same as any man, could testify in court, could even sue for divorce if they wished, advantages that women in the West would not have unti
l the last several hundred years. Some noble women were even educated and held important government positions, becoming viziers or priests. Did you know, the first female physician in recorded history was an Egyptian?”
I shook my head.
“It is true. Lady Peseshets, who lived in 2500 B.C. Egypt understood the power of women, all those years ago. Ironic when you consider that the modern world still often overlooks it. If I wanted to hide a weapon . . .”
“What?” I asked, because he just trailed off.
But Hassani only smiled.
I’d have liked to look through the whole collection, which took up both of the mid-room display units. Or to have examined the beautiful painted pottery, much of it intact instead of in shards like in the museums, that was scattered around. Or the gorgeous gold and carnelian jewelry on several plinths, as well as an entire overdress made out of delicate beading that a model was wearing.
But we weren’t here for that.